LUCIAN’S POV
Werewolf healing was a miraculous thing.
It was also deeply inconvenient for anyone trying to wallow properly in existential despair.
Most of my injuries had healed when I was unconscious, and by the following morning, the worst of the weakness had eased enough for me to stand without feeling as though my skeleton had been assembled by an enthusiastic amateur with a personal vendetta against structural integrity.
All I had as proof of what I’d gone through were my memories, and unfortunately, werewolf healing didn’t reach psychological wounds. Go figure.
By early afternoon, I had been relocated from the medical wing to one of the guest rooms in the packhouse.
The room itself was pleasant enough. Large windows overlooked the training grounds, where wolves moved through drills beneath the pale afternoon sun.
The furniture was simple but comfortable, and the muted earth tones made the room feel warmer than the sterile white room I'd woken up in yesterday.
